Then just as it comes, take the bad with the good; One man's spoon's made of silver, another's of wood:

What's poison for one man's another man's balm ; Some are safe in a storm, and some lost in a calm; Some are rolling in riches, some not worth a souse: To-day we eat beef, and to-morrow lob's scouse Thus the good, &c.

Langolee.

WHEN I took my departure from Dublin's sweet

town,

And for England's own self through the seas I did plough,

For four long days I was toss'd up and down,

Like a quid of chew'd hay in the throat of a cow. While a fraid off the deck in the ocean to slip, sir,, I clung, like a cat, a fast hold for to keep, sir, Round about the big post that grows out of the ship, sir,

Oh! I never thought more to sing Langolee.

Thus standing stock-still all the while I was moving, Till Ireland's dear coast I saw clear out of sight; Myself, the next day-a true Irishman proving

When leaving the ship, on the shore for to light; As the board they put out was too narrow to quarter,

The first step I took, I was in such a totter,
That I jump'd upon land-to my neck up in water?
O! there was no time to sing Langolee.

But as sharp cold and hunger I never yet knew

more,

And my stomach & bowels did grumble & growl, I thought the best way to get each in good humour, Was to take out the wrinkles of both, by my soul. So I went to a house where roast meat they provide, sir,

With a whirligig, which up the chimney I spied, sir, Which grinds all their smoke into powder beside, sir:

"Tis as true as I'm now singing Langolec.

Then I went to the landlord of all the stage-coaches, That set sail for London each night in the week, To whom I obnoxiously paid my approaches,

·--

As a birth aboard one I was come for to seek:But as for the inside, I'd not cash in my casket; Says I, with your leave, I make bold, sir, to ask it; When the coach is gone off, pray what time goes the basket?

For there I can ride, and sing Langolee.

When making his mouth up, The basket, says he, sir, Goes after the coach a full hour or two;

Very well, sir, says I, that's the thing then for me,

sir;

But the devil a word that he told me was true. For though one went before, and the other behind,

sir,

They set off cheek-by jowl at the very same time,

sir;

So the same day at night, I set out by moonshine,

sir,

All alone, by myself, singing Langolee.

O, long life to the moon, for a brave noble creature, That serves us with lamp-light each night in the

dark,

While the sun only shines in the day, which by

nature

Needs no light at all, as you all may remark. But as for the moon-by my soul I'll be bound, sir, It would save the whole nation a great many pound, sir,

To subscribe for to light him up all the year round, sir,

Or I'll never sing more about Langolee,

Tom Bowling.

HERE a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,

His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly
Ah! many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,"
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd :
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

The Chambermaid.

WHEN clouds obscure the ev'ning sky,

And rain in torrents pour,

The inn with joy, the trav'llers spy,
And seek its welcome door,

Tis there I stand to please them all,
And follow still my trade,

I smile, and run, whene'er they call,
A merry little chambermaid,

But when appears the dawn of day,
Farewell to ev'ry guest,

They take their leaves, and onward stray,
Some east, and others west;

And when that horrid bore, the bill,
Is called for, read, and paid,
I cry-I hope, give what you will,
You'll not forget the chambermaid,

Thus, happy, might I pass my life,
But love rules in my breast,
And till I'm made a happy wife,
I ne'er shall be at rest.

Then fortune's gifts in vain she sheds,
For love I leave my trade;
And give my all to him, who weds
The merry little chambermaid.

The Traveller's Song.

A TRAVELLER full forty years I have been,

But never went over to France;

All cities, and most market-towns have been in,
'Twixt Berwick-on-Tweed and Penzance;
My own native country with pleasure I range,
All seasons and times of the year,

In fashion still find a continual change,
Something novel will always appear.

The world, though 'tis round, as about it we go,
Strange ways, turns, and crosses we see,
But the favourite road which I mean to pursue,
Is-through life to go easy and free.

The traveller, braving a bleak wintry day,
To what place he soe'er may resort,
When reaching his inn, is as cheerful and gay,
As the sailor that gets into port.

Well seated and serv'd, his refreshment how sweet,
What comfort it gives to the heart,
And where a few friends unexpectedly meet,
How fond each his tale to impart.
But now this idea, which none can detest,
Has long been implanted in me,

That whatever maxims are followed, the best
Is-through life to go easy and free.